


Flycatcher

by Polomonkey



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Arthur Pendragon Returns, Arthur Saves the Day, Dark Merlin, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Redemption, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-12 07:23:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2100705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polomonkey/pseuds/Polomonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Driven mad by centuries of solitude, Merlin enacts a cruel revenge on the reincarnated Mordred. But what happens when Arthur finally returns?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take Me Up

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in a really bad mood and for some reason I've decided to take it out on Mordred.

The first time he comes back, it’s 1899 and Merlin finds him in an abandoned farmhouse in Ireland. He doesn’t know where he’s been between that point and the day Arthur’s sword struck him down, no matter how many times Merlin asks. All he remembers is darkness.

Merlin binds his magic, there and then. Mordred doesn’t try to stop him. Wherever he’s been for all this time, whatever’s happened to him, all he knows for certain is that he can’t fight anymore. 

He agrees that he can’t be trusted with his magic, and he lets Merlin take it away. He wants to be redeemed, and he believes only Merlin can show him how.

It’s only after that Merlin tells him there’s no redemption. Merlin tells him that he’ll hate him forever. Merlin tells him he’s a sick, crawling thing who rid the world of Arthur and condemned them all to darkness. A base, wicked creature who ripped Merlin’s destiny from him and doomed him to an eternal half-life. Merlin tells him he will never, ever be forgiven.

Merlin’s gone mad, that much is clear. But it doesn’t mean the things he says aren’t true and so Mordred bows his head and swears fealty to Merlin forever.

Fealty is an oath for men, Merlin tells him. And Mordred is not a man, he’s a monster. The only bond he can make is that of a slave.

Mordred makes it.

After that, it’s simple. A pattern sets in. Merlin leaves, for long enough that Mordred thinks he’s never coming back and is driven mad by the thought, and then he returns. 

And with him he brings pain.

 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Immortality is not the same for him as it is for Merlin. Merlin lives, unceasingly. Mordred dies, and is reborn. Again and again and again. 

Somewhere along that never-ending cycle of life and death, Merlin comes and finds him, every time.

It always starts with a kiss, but not a gentle one. A kiss of possession, a marker of Merlin’s ownership of him. Then Mordred takes his clothes off, or Merlin rips them off for him, and he finds himself pressed against the nearest hard surface, awaiting his punishment. 

It surprises him that it still hurts, after all this time. The sharp sting of the initial entry, the familiar ache of every vicious thrust, the rising panic that this time it really will break him, split him in two with agonising precision.

The pain never lessens, and he doesn’t know why. Perhaps Merlin’s made it that way with magic, or perhaps he makes it that way for himself. 

After Merlin’s reached his climax, and after he’s forced Mordred to reach his own, a lesson follows.

Sometimes Merlin ties Mordred down with a wave of his hand, invisible ropes pinning his wrists and ankles to the bed, and then stands before him with golden eyes. Mutters ancient words, sacred words, to summon pain that carves and slices at Mordred; curses that boil his blood within him, that force white heat into his aching skull until he tips back his head and screams in agony.

More often, he doesn’t bother with magic though. He uses his bare hands to bang Mordred’s head off every wall in the place, to wrap his fingers tight around his neck and squeeze, to knock him to the floor and kick him until his ribs splinter and crack.

He’s died more than once that way. Twice he’s bled out, lying where Merlin left him, feeling his life trickle out and stain the floor beneath him. Once he asphyxiates, Merlin’s belt pulled taut around his neck, his last conscious sight being cold blue eyes that watch intently as he gasps and twitches. The worst time is when Merlin simply ties him to a chair and leaves him, in a small wooden shack in the middle of nowhere. He’s so maddened by thirst on the second day that he forgets his vow to never try and escape, and he screams himself hoarse for help. But no-one comes and he dies two days later, choking on dry air. 

It doesn’t always end like that. Sometimes when Merlin’s wrung his orgasm from him, he stills, calms. Lies down beside Mordred on the bed or the ground or wherever it is they find themselves. Twists his long fingers through Mordred’s hair and enfolds him in his arms.

Mordred has long since stopped believing that these tender moments signify forgiveness. But he aches for them all the same; clings to Merlin’s body when he is allowed, leans in to breathe his air, to inhale his scent.

Merlin still smells like the forests of Camelot, after all this time.

 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Merlin says Arthur’s name in his sleep, on the rare occasions that he stays the night. Mordred listens with a kind of desperate longing. He wants Merlin to sigh his own name like that. He wants Merlin to love him like he loves the memory of a dead man.

Above all, he wants to know when it will be enough. When his atonement will be complete.

Merlin says it will never be enough, but Mordred can’t bring himself to believe that. If he did, he’d give up now. He holds on to the image in his mind’s eye of a smiling man, who never turned his back on the hopeless, or shut his heart to pity. He remembers Merlin as he was, in flashes, remembers him as a healer, as a peacemaker, as a friend to all.

A small part of him whispers that Merlin was never his friend. That Merlin always distrusted him, watched him with wary eyes, waited for him to go wrong. That Merlin believed him to be a deadly threat to Arthur right up until the day he became one.

 _If you had trusted me,_ he wants to say. _If you’d have reached out to me then, if I’d had someone to turn to… things might have been different._

He never says this of course but Merlin reads it in his thoughts anyway, and laughs mockingly, his hand fisted in Mordred’s hair.

“It could never have been different,” he hisses. “You were always going to do what you did. You were always irredeemable.”

Mordred cries then, even though he knows how Merlin hates it, because there must be some way to recover what was lost. There must be some way he can be saved.

“Never,” Merlin whispers, carving the word into Mordred’s skin with magic, raw and unmistakable. 

After he leaves, Mordred sits on the floor and thinks the same thing that he does every time, that there will only be an end to this madness the day Arthur rises again.

He prays for that day to come soon, and he hopes it never does.


	2. Cast Me Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er, so I'm in a less bad mood now and feeling a bit guilty about Mordred. So here is some redemption.

**When you come back to me**  
 **it will be crow time**  
 **and flycatcher time,**  
 **with rising spirals of gnats**  
 **between the apple trees.**  
 **Every weed will be quadrupled,**  
 **coarse, welcoming**  
 **and spine-tipped.**  
 **The crows, their black flapping**  
 **bodies, their long calling**  
 **toward the mountain;**  
 **relatives, like mine,**  
 **ambivalent, eye-hooded;**  
 **hooting and tearing.**  
 **And you will take me in**  
 **to your fractal meaningless**  
 **babble; the quick of my mouth,**  
 **the madness of my tongue.**  


_Poems ~ Ruth Stone_

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The day Arthur comes back is cold and bright, and the scent of sea salt is on the air.

Mordred hasn’t seen Merlin for six months and he doesn’t know why until Merlin bursts through the door of his tiny bedsit, eyes fever bright, and announces: “It’s time.”

Five hours later, they’re approaching the shores of Avalon. 

“I’d been seeing the omens for months,” Merlin says as he drags Mordred along. “But I only made sense of them a few days ago, and then I knew it was finally happening.”

He’s talking to himself more than to Mordred, hands gesticulating wildly, cheeks flushed. He looks beautiful, and insane.

When they finally reach the edge of the lake, Mordred is suddenly afraid. He stops walking, and Merlin spins to face him.

“I shouldn’t go any further,” he says quickly. “I should… he’s back now, and you don’t need me anymore.”

Merlin reaches out to grip his wrist, cruel and sudden.

“Did you really think I’d let you go?” he says, and then ropes are twisting their way around Mordred’s hands and ankles. He overbalances, falls, and Merlin leaves him lying there on his side as he walks forward and wades into the lake.

For a long time, nothing happens. Then a monstrous thunderclap sounds, and a flash of lightning rends the sky in two. Mordred watches, shaking, as the waters begin to froth and foam, until a kind of whirlpool appears in the middle of the lake. A bolt of lightning strikes right down into the centre of the swirling chaos, and there’s an almighty cracking sound. 

Mordred shuts his eyes in terror for a long minute. When he opens them again, the sky is clear and the water is calm. And from the centre of the lake, a figure is emerging…

Mordred watches, transfixed, as Arthur Pendragon rises again: chainmail gleaming, Excalibur at his side.

Merlin doesn’t move straight away, then all at once he takes off running, splashing through the water until he reaches Arthur. They stand and stare at each other for a long moment, and then they fall into each other’s arms, and Mordred looks away.

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Merlin brings Arthur back to the shore and they sit on the ground for several hours, talking. Mordred’s too far away to hear what they’re saying, but he sees Arthur bring his hand up to caress Merlin’s face at one point and it makes his heart hurt.

Eventually they rise, and Mordred entertains a mad hope that they might just walk away and leave him, but then Merlin turns and directs Arthur towards where he lies.

When they get close enough to see him, Arthur recoils, and Merlin places a soothing hand on his shoulder.

“It’s alright, he can’t hurt you anymore.”

Mordred squints up at Arthur. He’s just as handsome as Mordred remembers him; in fact, more so. Reincarnated Arthur positively gleams; his hair shining like burnished gold, his skin glowing like warm sunlight.

“Is he-” Arthur begins to ask and Merlin cuts him off.

“I bound his magic. He can’t do anything.”

Suddenly he draws back his foot and kicks Mordred in the forehead. Stars explode in Mordred’s vision; he’s dizzy and blind for a moment, unable to hear the question Arthur’s asking.

“Not here,” Merlin says. “I’ve got a cabin just up the way. I’ll explain it all there.”

The rope around Mordred’s ankles vanishes, and Merlin hauls him up and drags him along, blood tricking down the side of his face.

 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

The walk back to the cabin is short, and Mordred spends it incoherent with fear. When it was only Merlin he could just about cope, but what will the two of them do to him now? Arthur must be so angry at him, angrier even than Merlin. Will Arthur kill him? Or will they keep him around as their plaything; to fuck, and beat, and torture? Just like before, only worse because there’ll never be a tender touch from Merlin again; never a night spent lying intertwined now that Arthur’s back.

His thoughts cease when they reach the cabin and Merlin pushes him in, sending him sprawling on the floor. He catches himself as best as he can with his hands tied in front of him, and then scuttles to the corner and presses his back against the wall.

He can feel Arthur’s gaze boring into him.

“He came back just over a hundred years ago, and I found him,” Merlin says calmly. “I bound his magic and then he swore fealty to me as a slave. He’ll be your slave too, now.”

There’s a pause.

“Why?” Arthur says.

Merlin looks surprised at the question.

“Why keep him as a slave instead of killing him, you mean? He has his uses. Not a bad fuck, either,” he adds carelessly.

Mordred squeezes his eyes shut, hot shame coursing through his body. When he opens them again, Arthur’s looking at Merlin. And Mordred’s never seen him look that way at Merlin before.

Merlin doesn’t seem to have noticed.

“I expect you want your revenge,” he’s saying. “But no rush. Believe me when I say I’ve been punishing him for you.”

“I believe you,” Arthur says, and his tone is impossible to read.

Merlin finally falters and turns to looks at Arthur. Unexpectedly, his eyes fill with tears.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” he whispers. “I want to talk about you. I’ve missed you so much.”

His voice takes on a dreamlike quality. 

“I didn’t know how much longer I could go on. I was coming to the end of myself, Arthur. I’ve been so desperate these last few years.”

A tear rolls down his cheek.

“I wanted to end the world because you weren’t in it.”

“You could do that?” Arthur says. “You could end the world?”

Merlin nods.

“But now I don’t need to,” he says. “Because you came back.”

He drinks Arthur in for a moment.

“Don’t worry; everything will be as it was. I’ll make sure of it. The first thing I’ll do is restore you to your rightful position as King of Albion.”

“How?” Arthur asks quietly. 

“There is no power that can go against me,” Merlin says simply. “No-one that can stand in our way.”

Mordred feels like he’s drowning. This is what it’s come to, after all this time? Merlin installing Arthur as a despot, and cutting down all who dare to argue?

Involuntarily, he lets out a sob and Merlin turns on him, eyes flashing.

“Least of all you, little one. I can stop your life cycle right now if I want, make it so your next death is your last.”

Mordred cowers, even as a part of him questions whether that might be so bad.

He can’t live like this, not anymore.

Arthur looks confused.

“I thought he was immortal.”

“He is, but not like I am. There are still ways to kill him for good, but there are none that can kill me.”

Merlin’s eyes fall on Excalibur by Arthur’s side.

“Except Excalibur, of course,” he smiles.

“Except Excalibur,” Arthur agrees, and in one fluid motion he draws his sword and drives it straight through Merlin’s heart.

For a single second, there is perfect silence.

Then Arthur pulls the sword free. 

Merlin steps back, once, twice. He looks slowly down at the black blood seeping out of his chest.

For a moment there’s only a wet, choking sound, then Merlin’s head tips back and a terrible noise fills the room, like a thousand screams at once. Frozen in fear, Mordred watches as a silvery smoke rises from Merlin’s open mouth, and hovers in the air. Then it vanishes, and Merlin falls.

His body hits the ground with a dull thud, one pale hand stretched out to clutch at air.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispers into the stillness of the room.

He walks over to Mordred with Excalibur still drawn and Mordred panics, trying to shy away, because he knew he’d die for good one day but he always thought it would be at Merlin’s hand and not like this, never like this…

Arthur raises his sword and brings it down through the air.

It slices through the ropes binding Mordred’s hands.

Mordred can only stare up at him in shock.

“Are you alright?” Arthur says.

“You k-k-killed… you killed Merlin.”

“That wasn’t Merlin,” Arthur says, and he looks very old. 

“That wasn’t the man I knew. That was someone else.”

Mordred clasps his shaking hands together, his whole body numb. He can only look at Arthur in disbelief, and Arthur sighs and sits down next to him.

“Before I came back, the Lady of the Lake spoke to me. She told me it was my time to return; that Albion had reached its hour of need. She said a great evil had been rising, and the end was nigh unless it could be stopped.”

Mordred notices that Arthur’s own hands are trembling.

“When I stepped out of that lake, I was expecting to walk out into the middle of a war. I kept asking Merlin what the threat was, and he kept saying there wasn’t one. It wasn’t until we got here that I realised it was him.”

Tears are trickling down Arthur's cheeks now, but his voice is steady.

“I don’t understand,” Mordred says.

“You heard him,” Arthur says tiredly. “There was no power that could go against him. No-one able to stand in our way. He would have imposed me as a tyrant king and ruled with an iron fist by my side. And if I had gone against him… he could end the whole world.”

Mordred casts his eyes to the ground, shudders wracking his body. He feels a gentle touch under his chin, lifting his head up.

“Had I not known it from his words,” Arthur says gently, “I would have known it from his treatment of you. The Merlin I knew never would have acted so.”

Mordred feels tears starting to fall thick and fast down his face, and Arthur thumbs at them tenderly.

“You have been terribly misused, Mordred,” he says. “And I am sorry.”

“But I…” Mordred chokes out, a fresh wave of misery washing over him. “I killed you.”

“The Lady of the Lake showed me many things before I left,” Arthur says softly. “I was able to see the years in Camelot as I had never seen them before. And it taught me that good and evil were never as distinct as I believed back then.”

He reaches out to take Mordred’s hand.

“We made mistakes, all of us. We were thrust into a story much bigger than ourselves and we didn’t always make the right choices. We were so young…”

Arthur sounds very far away, but then he turns to look Mordred in the eye.

“I don’t blame you.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mordred sobs out.

“You are forgiven,” Arthur says, and a flood of emotion hits Mordred full force. He can only weep for a long time, overwhelmed to finally hear the words he waited so many lifetimes for. It shouldn’t be as simple as that, to be absolved by one man and his words, but that’s how it feels.

Arthur stays beside him, holding his hand.

As Mordred’s sobs subside, he finally registers the strange thrumming in his blood that has been gradually building since the moment Merlin fell to the ground.

“My…” he says, and stops. Tries again. “I think my magic is back.”

It feels so odd and unfamiliar after all this time, but he knows he recognises that delicate singing in his veins. It pulses gently through him, like it’s settling down after a long time away. He falls into it, like a pair of arms wrapped around him.

“You don’t have Merlin’s power, do you?” Arthur asks, and Mordred shakes his head.

“So you couldn’t make me immortal?”

Mordred swallows.

“I don’t know… I might be able to try-"

“No, you misunderstand me,” Arthur interrupts. “I do not wish for immortality. I should like this life to be my last.”

“Mine too,” Mordred says, and their gazes both fall on the still body across the room.

They sit quietly for a while.

“What now?” Mordred asks eventually.

“We bury him,” Arthur says. “At Avalon, as he would have wanted.”

Mordred nods. 

“And then?”

Arthur looks very sad, then, with what seems like a tremendous effort, he smiles.

“I suppose I’ll have to go out and see this brand new world for myself,” he says lightly. 

Mordred tries a smile himself.

“There’s a lot to see.”

Arthur rises to his feet, then turns to looks at him.

“I may need a guide,” he says.

There’s a lump in Mordred’s throat. He swallows around it and nods.

“Come on, then,” Arthur says, and he holds out his hand.


End file.
